The Gold Falcon

The gnome clutched its head with both hands and mugged disgust.

‘It’s absolutely impossible that he’s the same person. My folk don’t grow younger with time, you know. Besides, how can there be real dweomer? It’s just somewhat from old tales, like the ones Salamander tells.’

The gnome pointed at itself, then at her face.

‘Well, truly, I do see you, and so does Neb, and other people say the Wildfolk aren’t real, but –’ She let her voice trail away. But what? she asked herself. The gnome crossed its arms over its chest and smirked.

In the morning, as she was coming down for breakfast, she noticed Salamander, standing near the foot of the staircase and idly looking over the great hall. He glanced up, saw her, and bowed.

‘Good morrow, gerthddyn,’ Branna said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘I did, truly. And you?’

‘I did, my thanks. I’ve been enjoying the tales you tell. So many of them seem to have dweomer in them.’

‘There’s naught like a good marvel to catch your audience’s attention.’

‘True spoken. You’ve travelled all over the kingdom, haven’t you?’

‘I have.’

‘I don’t suppose that you’ve ever come across – oh well, never mind. I don’t mean to be stupid.’

Branna started to turn away, but Salamander caught her by the elbow.

‘Real dweomer, you mean?’ He was grinning at her.

She pulled her arm free of his lax grasp and hurried away. You dolt! she told herself. You’ve really made a fool of yourself this time! At the honour hearth she risked a glance back, but Salamander had found a place at a table and was devoting himself to his breakfast. At the honour table Mirryn sat alone, slumped in his chair.

‘Good morning!’ Branna sat down opposite him and smiled.

Mirryn never looked up from his profound study of the table’s edge. His hair, usually a thick smooth brown, looked matted and spiky, as if he’d been running his hands through it out of sheer nerves, and his puffy eyes made Branna wonder if he’d stayed awake all night. A serving lass brought a basket of warm bread and a crock of butter, then trotted off again.

‘What is it, Mirro?’ Branna said. ‘You look troubled about somewhat.’

‘Do I?’ He ducked his head to avoid looking at her and reached for the basket.

‘You do. What –’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, to hear that you don’t want to marry a coward like me.’

‘What?’ Branna laid both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My lady mother mentioned that you didn’t want to marry me, and why else, but everyone knows I’m a wretched coward who never rides to war.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid! That’s not it at all.’

‘You don’t need to be kind –’

‘Do hold your tongue and listen! I told her that it would be like marrying my brother. You can’t possibly want to marry me, anyway.’

‘Well, I don’t, truly.’ At last he looked at her. ‘It would be like marrying my sister.’

She burst out laughing, and in a moment he joined her.

‘And you’re not a coward,’ Branna said at last. ‘Everyone knows that Uncle won’t let you go to war. It’s not your choice.’

‘How do you know that they think such?’

‘Because I heard a lot of people talking about it when I was still back with Da. Da and his friends think Uncle Cadryc’s daft when it comes to you.’

Mirryn thought this over while he cut a chunk of bread in half with his table dagger. He handed her one of the pieces.

‘Truly?’ he said. ‘You’re not just trying to soothe my feelings?’

‘Not in the least! It’s quite true. Butter, please?’

Mirryn slid the crock across to her and thought some more. ‘My thanks,’ he said finally. ‘That gladdens my heart to hear.’

Branna was about to tell him more, but Cadryc himself was striding over to the table, with Aunt Galla trotting after. Branna rose, curtsied to them both, then sat down again when Galla took her place. For the rest of the meal they chatted about trivial things.

Later that day Salamander sought Branna out. To get a moment’s peace from the busy, dusty ward she had climbed up the catwalk ladders to the top of the dun wall. By leaning between two crenels she could look out on a long green view, striped here and there with the west-flowing streams that would eventually join the Melyn. She was thinking of very little when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something gleaming. She turned to look, and farther down the catwalk stood the figure of the old man in his ragged clothes, holding out a glowing opal. Branna caught her breath with a gasp, and he disappeared.

Am I seeing things? she wondered. Or is he one of the Wildfolk? Although the figure reminded her of the man named Nevyn that she’d seen in her dreams, he looked somewhat different. She had never had a dream such as that one, when the opal had glowed like a candle flame, nor about any such gem. The old man seemed to be promising to give her something mysterious but beautiful, a rare gift indeed, if only she would come closer and speak to him. But what if it were a trap, and the gem the bait? Standing in the summer sun, she shivered and clasped her hands together to keep them warm. Don’t be a dolt! she told herself. Why would anyone want to trap you?

A pleasant voice hailed her from below. Salamander came climbing up the rickety wood ladder to join her on the wall. She started to make some mundane greeting, then stopped, shocked into silence. Wildfolk swarmed around him – crystalline sylphs, winged sprites, pale warty gnomes.

‘Good morrow,’ Salamander said. ‘Is somewhat the matter?’

‘Not at all, not at all. My apologies. You took me by surprise, is all.’

‘Then I should apologize to you. I just thought I’d keep you company, if that’s acceptable.’

‘It is, but I’d best get back to my duties. My aunt will be looking for me.’

‘Perhaps later, then?’

‘Perhaps.’ She hesitated, but the gerthddyn was certainly amusing, and good-looking as well. ‘I might have a moment later.’

She swung herself onto the catwalk, then climbed down the ladder a little faster than was strictly safe. She could only wonder why she’d found it so frightening, that the Wildfolk followed Salamander around. It seemed to her that the world had turned suddenly strange. From the moment I met Neb, she thought. That’s when it all started. She felt that she should know what Neb’s arrival in her life meant, that she was looking at the back of a tapestry and seeing a tangle of colour and thread hiding the true pattern. If she could only turn the cloth over and see the front, she would know the answer. If.

As Branna walked across the ward, she saw two dusty horsemen riding in. When they dismounted, she saw that their shields carried the sun blazon of Cengarn. Messengers, she thought. With a cold feeling around her heart, she hurried into the great hall. Behind her came a small mob of servants and riders, as anxious to hear the news as she was.

Nearly a fortnight after the tieryn had sent his letter, messengers from the gwerbret had finally arrived with the answer. Neb followed them in, hurried across the great hall, and knelt on one knee beside the tieryn’s chair at the head of the honour table. A messenger knelt on the other side and proffered the silver tube. Cadryc took it, glanced at the seal, and handed it to Neb.

‘Read it as loudly as you can,’ Cadryc said. ‘We might as well all hear the news at once.’

Neb got up and turned towards the crowd in the great hall. ‘To his grace, Tieryn Cadryc of the Red Wolf, I send greetings. I have no intention of appealing to the high king for aid in the matter you put before me. You were appointed to guard the border. The high king was not.’ Neb glanced the tieryn’s way. ‘It’s signed –’

‘We know who sent the cursed thing!’ Cadryc had gone red in the face. He took a deep breath and paused to look over the great hall, crammed with every rider and servant in the dun, or so it seemed. Lord Mirryn worked his way through the mob and reached his father’s side. At the sight of him the tieryn smiled and turned calm.

‘Well, the gwerbret may not want to appeal to the king,’ Cadryc said, ‘but I see naught wrong with my appealing to the gwerbret. I’ll take fifteen men for an honour escort. As soon as the taxes and suchlike are all taken care of, I’ll ride to Cengarn.’

‘Father?’ Lord Mirryn laid a hand on his father’s arm. ‘I want to go with you.’

‘What? And leave the dun unguarded?’ Cadryc said. ‘There’s Horsekin prowling around, lad, and –’

‘They’ve never raided this far east.’

‘We’ll not argue about it in front of the whole great hall.’ Cadryc’s voice turned into a growl.

Mirryn tossed his head, started to snarl, then smoothed his expression into a bland indifference. ‘As you wish, Father,’ he said. ‘But I’d like a word alone with you later, if I may.’

‘Fair enough. Neb, you’ll be coming with us. I’ll tell Gerran to pick you out a horse.’

‘My thanks, your grace.’ Neb bowed to him. ‘May I have your leave to go? The chamberlain’s waiting for me out in the ward. More taxes have arrived.’

‘You may. In fact, I’ll come out with you.’

Gerran had seen the messengers ride in, but by the time he reached the great hall, it was too full for him to squeeze his way inside. The news reached him anyway, in the form of outraged chatter as the hall emptied. Servant and rider alike blustered and swore, that the gwerbret would treat their lord so rudely. Cadryc himself emerged only a few moments later.

‘Did you hear what that blasted letter said?’ Cadryc asked him.

‘I did, your grace.’

The tieryn took a deep breath and calmed himself. ‘Once I see all the taxes safely in, we’ll ride to Cengarn. In the meantime, pick out a palfrey for the scribe and see if he knows how to ride it.’

‘Well and good, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘The sooner we lay our case before the gwerbret, the happier I’ll be.’

They strolled together through the ward, which at the moment looked more like a market fair. Farmers stood beside wagon-loads of winter wheat or chased after small droves of hogs and flocks of chickens while the frantic chamberlain ran back and forth. Two men dressed in the ragged clothes of shepherds were just coming through the gates, pushing a handcart piled high with shorn fleeces that looked a fair bit cleaner than they did. Off to one side Neb stood on a little island of calm and jotted down tallies on scraps of fraying parchment.

‘The scribe seems to know what he’s doing,’ Gerran said.

‘He does, doesn’t he? He’s a confident lad for his age. I’d been a bit worried about old Veddyn, to tell you the truth. He forgets things.’ Cadryc suddenly stepped away and waved to someone across the ward. ‘Ah. There’s Goodman Gwervyl. I’d best go speak to him personally. He’s a decent man with a bow, and he’s offered to train more archers.’

Gerran found a place to wait out of the way. Serving lasses hurried by, their arms full of empty baskets, heading for a wagon down by the gates. When he saw Lady Branna following them, Gerran stepped forward and bowed to her. She waved, gave him a brittle little smile, and trotted on past. Not a very encouraging sign, he thought. She probably saw him as nothing but a common-born lout, or worse yet, as bloodkin of a sort, thanks to his fostering. Either opinion would keep him at a distance. He wished he had a better idea of how to court a lass. Fortunately, the tieryn returned and broke into his gloom-laden thoughts.

‘I’m not sure what to say to the wretched gwerbret,’ Cadryc said. ‘Any ideas?’

‘None, my lord.’

‘We’ll have to think about it on the ride to Cengarn. I’ll have to be careful about how I put things. For now, work with the pages, will you? You’ll have to be firm with young Ynedd. His mother spoiled the lad, and he snivels all the time.’

‘Well and good. I’ll see what I can do.’

Like all great lords, Cadryc had noble pages in his household, sons of his vassals sent to him for their training in warfare and courtesy. At ten summers Coryn was a decent enough lad, but Ynedd, a skinny little boy, all big blue eyes and blond curls, had never been away from his mother before. Gerran refused to let pity soften the lad’s training; someday Ynedd’s life would depend on how well he could fight.

They went round the back of the broch to practise away from the wagons and the livestock. Gerran let Coryn rest in the shade of the wall while he showed Ynedd the proper grip for the hilt.

‘We’ll have to work on your wrists,’ Gerran said. ‘All right, lay it down on the ground, then pick it up again.’

Glancing sideways at him, Ynedd did as he was told. Gerran had him pick it up and lay it down five times in a row, each time correcting his grip. Finally Ynedd flung the sword down.

‘I don’t want to do this any more,’ he announced.

‘Too bad.’ Gerran caught the lad’s gaze with his own. ‘Do it anyway.’

Ynedd crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Gerran slapped him across the face.

‘You can’t do that to me!’ Ynedd’s voice rose to a squeal. ‘You’re just a commoner.’

‘But he can.’ Coryn got up and trotted over. ‘He’s the captain, and you’ve got to obey him. You truly truly do.’

Ynedd’s eyes filled with tears, but he picked up the sword. After a dozen times or so, Gerran saw that his little hand shook on the heavy hilt and told him that he could stop.

‘There,’ Gerran said. ‘You’ve done somewhat you didn’t think you could do.’

Ynedd shrugged and glared at the cobblestones. Gerran sent the lads off to the stables to get their ponies for a riding lesson. As he started after them, he noticed Clae, standing and watching some paces away.

‘Am I doing somewhat wrong?’ Clae said.

‘Not unless you’re supposed to be working,’ Gerran said.

‘I’m not. I just wanted to see. I wish I could learn to fight.’

‘Oh, do you now? Why?’

‘So I could grow up to be a rider and kill Horsekin.’

Something flat and cold in the lad’s voice caught Gerran’s attention, making him remember what had brought the lad to the dun. He knelt on one knee so he could look him in the face.

‘That’s an honourable enough thing,’ Gerran said. ‘How old are you? Do you know?’

‘Eight, sir. My da always kept count. Could I ever be a rider? I’m only a scribe’s son.’

‘So? Riders aren’t noble-born. But here, training is hard work. I wager you’d tire of it soon enough.’

‘I wouldn’t. When I got tired, I’d just think of my uncle, and I’d hate them all over again, and I wouldn’t be tired any more.’

Gerran had never seen such cold rage in a child’s eyes.

‘I keep dreaming about our village,’ Clae went on. ‘The Horsekin come, and I try to stop them, and they laugh at me. I hate that dream.’

‘I’ll wager you do. Have you told Neb about it?’

‘I haven’t. He’d only tell me I shouldn’t be dwelling on what we can’t change. You know what hurts the worst? When we were up by the waterfall watching them, I knew I couldn’t do anything to stop them. Naught!’ His soft voice cracked. ‘I never want to feel that way again.’

Gerran considered him, a healthy child and big for his age, but it was the hatred that impressed Gerran the most. A desire for glory made most Deverry men want to be warriors, but it took harshness, that bitter streak in mind and soul, for a man to become a successful one.

‘Tell you what,’ Gerran said. ‘If your brother agrees, I’ll take you on. But I’ll warn you: it’s hard work, and even a wooden sword will hurt if you get hit with it. Fair?’

‘Fair.’ Clae grinned at him. ‘Will the tieryn let me?’

‘No doubt, if I ask him, but the question is whether your brother will let you. He’s the head of your clan now. You ask him and tell him to come talk to me this afternoon.’

While he gave his noble charges their riding lesson, Gerran occasionally found himself thinking about Clae, who reminded him of himself as a child. He could remember his own burning rage that the Horsekin had killed his father. The hatred still existed, though transmuted to something cold after all these years, as clean as a new sword blade. The gods of war had given Clae just such a splendid gift.

When they returned to the dun, Gerran found Neb waiting for him. The scribe came with him to the stables and held the horse’s bridle while Gerran unsaddled him.

‘I take it Clae spoke with you,’ Gerran said.

‘He did,’ Neb said. ‘You know, he’s the only bloodkin I have left in the world, and it aches my heart to see him wanting to join a warband.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘But I can’t stand in his way, either. From what everyone in the dun tells me, he’ll have the best swordsman in all Deverry to learn from.’

‘Indeed?’ Gerran felt himself blush at the compliment. ‘They exaggerate by a fair bit.’

‘We’ll see.’ Neb smiled, more than a little ruefully. ‘But if you’ll take Clae on, I’ll agree. His wyrd isn’t mine, and there’s naught I can do about that.’

‘True spoken. But he’ll have to serve a sort of apprenticeship. If he doesn’t have the raw gifts he needs to make a swordsman, I’ll turn him back over to you.’

‘Fair enough. I –’ Neb stopped in mid-sentence and stared at something over Gerran’s shoulder.

When Gerran turned, he saw Branna, walking across the ward at some distance. From the look in Neb’s eyes Gerran suddenly realized that the scribe was besotted with the lass. With the realization came a baffling thought: deep in his soul Gerran knew that Neb had the better claim on her. Yet the thought of stepping back and letting the scribe – this skinny weakling – why he even knew how to read! I’ll not give up as easily as that, Gerran told himself. We’ll just see who wins her.

Without a word aloud, Gerran turned to follow her. Neb did the same, but they both stopped when they saw Salamander coming to meet her. The gerthddyn bowed to her with such courtly grace that she smiled and allowed him to take her arm as they strolled away.

‘Curse his very soul!’ Gerran whispered.

‘It’s not his soul that troubles me,’ Neb said.

In sullen brotherhood they turned and strode back to the ward, out of sight of Branna and the good-looking gerthddyn both.

Behind the broch, at a pleasant distance from the pig sty and the dungheap, the cook had planted a kitchen garden. Narrow beds of herbs separated each plot of cabbages, turnips, and the like. In their aromatic midst stood a little bench, where Salamander led Branna for their talk.

‘Tell me somewhat,’ Salamander said. ‘What do you think of young Neb? And of Gerran for that matter.’

‘Everyone seems to be asking me that these days,’ Branna said. ‘Are you trying to marry me off, too?’

‘Do I look like a village matchmaker?’

‘Truly, you don’t. So why did you ask me about Neb and Gerran?’

‘They both seem besotted with you. That’s all.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’ Branna sounded deeply surprised. ‘How very odd.’

‘Now here! Not so odd for a pretty lass like you.’

‘But very odd for a lass who has no dowry to speak of.’

‘You don’t value yourself highly, do you, my lady?’

‘How could I? My stepmother never let a chance go by to remind me how lowly I was. She used to suggest that I become a priestess, since obviously I’d never make a good marriage.’

‘A nasty sort, was she? A veritable shrew, virago, termagant, and so on and so forth.’

‘All of that, good sir, and more. Do you know what it’s like to have your kin begrudge the food you eat?’

‘I do, oddly enough,’ Salamander said. ‘But I didn’t have to suffer it as long. How did you manage to keep from going mad?’

‘What? And let her claim a victory?’

They shared a laugh.

‘But your question’s worthy of an answer,’ Branna went on. ‘At first, I wasn’t truly alone. When I was small, there were the servants’ children in my father’s dun to play with – not my precious stepbrothers, of course, who weren’t allowed to talk to someone so far beneath them.’

‘It’s a pity your stepmother didn’t get carried off by Horsekin. They would have understood each other very well.’

Branna grinned at him, then went on. ‘I did have Aunt Galla to look out for my interests, too.’ The grin disappeared. ‘Until her husband was offered this demesne, and they moved out here.’

‘So our good tieryn’s not held this dun for very long?’

‘He hasn’t. He and Galla used to live about twenty miles east of here, not far from my father’s dun, which is farther east still. But when the king established this demesne, the gwerbret assigned it to Cadryc. I saw Aunt Galla but rarely after that, and the servants’ children had all been set to working by then.’

‘But you survived.’

‘I did. I learned how to be alone, you see. I made up little tales to ease my heart, about some other time and some other place in Deverry.’ She looked away with a sigh. A long strand of hair had pulled free of the clasp and hung beside her cheek. With an irritated wave of her hand she flipped it back, but when it fell forward again, she ignored it.

‘What sort of tales?’ Salamander said. ‘I find myself most curious, if you’d care to tell me.’

‘Oh, well, they were stupid things, I suppose.’ Branna suddenly blushed. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned them.’

‘Don’t be. Please, they can’t be very stupid if you told them. You strike me as a level-headed lass.’

‘I do? Most people call me strange.’

‘Most people are half-blind no matter how good their eyes. But I am a gerthddyn, you know. Hearing about someone else’s tales always interests me.’

Another sigh, another glance away – for a moment she perched so uneasily on the edge of the bench that he feared she’d get up and bolt; then she settled back.

‘I made up this other Then, this other Where, you see, another world, really, though it was much like Deverry. And in this world –’ She paused for a moment.

Salamander gave her an encouraging smile.

‘Well, I used to pretend that I was a mighty sorcerer. I travelled all over the kingdom, and to Bardek, and to marvellous islands far far away. I could call down a strange blue fire to light my way, and once, when I was trapped in a burning building, I commanded the wind to save me.’

‘Sounds splendid, indeed.’

‘In one tale, I could even turn myself into a bird and fly.’

‘And this bird, it was a falcon, was it?’

Branna slewed around on the bench and stared at him while the colour drained from her face. ‘How do you know that?’ she was whispering. ‘Or are sorcerous powers a common delusion among lonely females?’

‘Not at all. Most lonely lasses dream about meeting a prince who loves them madly.’

She laughed with a toss of her head, and in that gesture he could see the hard common sense that once had been hers, in that other when, that other where. ‘True enough,’ she said. ‘But how did you know about my falcon?’

‘My mysterious bardic powers, of course. Ah, I see you don’t believe me.’

‘You’re not a bard. If you were, maybe I’d believe you, but you’re a gerthddyn. How did you know?’

‘Ah, therein lies an enigma, most recondite, obscure, and elusive.’ Salamander paused. He could hear voices coming towards them. ‘And it’s one you absolutely must solve for yourself.’ He stood up with a wave in the direction of the voices. ‘Here comes our good tieryn and his son, so alas, I must leave you.’

Branna jumped up and grabbed him by the shirt with both hands. ‘Tell me, you chattering elf!’ She let him go and stepped back, blushing furiously. ‘A thousand apologies! I don’t know what made me do that. I mean, you’re not even an elf. It was wretchedly rude of me. Please forgive me!’

‘You’re forgiven, and here’s one last bit of advice. Be careful around Gerran. He might carry the falcon mark, but I doubt me if he’ll ever turn into a bird and fly.’

‘I figured that out on my own, good sir.’